


Percy

by Explicit_Lightsaber_Wh00sh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Consent, Crying, Dumbledore Bashing, Forced Prostitution, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Molly Weasley Bashing, Multi, NO rape, No Sex Scenes, OOC, Polyamory, Prostitution, Thirsty Lucius Malfoy, Weasley Bashing, Y'ALL NEED JESUS, a lot of swearing, bottom! Marcus flint, bottom! Percy Weasley, fake death, four main characters are NASTY AF, heavy implication towards sex, major character deaths, slight Good Omen reference, slight Percy Weasley harem aspects, top! Bartemius Crouch Jr., top! Oliver Wood, trigger warning: mild torture scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:33:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27739228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Explicit_Lightsaber_Wh00sh/pseuds/Explicit_Lightsaber_Wh00sh
Summary: Percy Weasley is, essentially, a prostitute to Lucius Malfoy because his family is broke and Percy has already slept with the pureblood once before, so what's the harm? Not like his boyfriends (that's right, he's got three) are against it /that much/.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy, Molly Weasley/Arthur Weasley, Neville Longbottom/Luna Lovegood, Percy Weasley/Bartemius Crouch Jr., Percy Weasley/Lucius Malfoy, Percy Weasley/Marcus Flint, Percy Weasley/Oliver Wood, Percy Weasley/Oliver Wood/Marcus Flint/ Bartemius Crouch Jr.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

This story ends with a car drive. In the middle, there’s a little bit of swearing, a little bit of laughter, and a little bit of crying. But the beginning? This story starts with a _storm_

_CRACK!_

A bolt of lightning illuminates the fat grey storm clouds that smother the star’s light. Like gunshots, raindrops attack the outer walls of the burrow, some squeezing their way in between the rotted wood and dripping onto the cozy carpets. 

The inside of the burrow is as hectic as the outside. Floating pots crash into each other as they chase after a lanky redhead, who runs from both the levitating kitchenware and the plump woman chasing after the kitchenware angrily waving her wand. 

“Fred! What did those pots ever do to you?” 

“I’m not Fred, Mum! Honestly, Gred, can you believe this woman?” The redhead directs his question to the other ginger, a carbon copy of the speaker, who lays splayed out on the couch’s many throw pillows and blankets. 

“Indeed, Forge, and she calls herself our mother— Ow!” The now dubbed Gred rubs the spot on his head where his mother slapped him. 

“Honestly, you two. Fred, get off the couch and start sealing up these holes. George— Oh for heaven’s sake leave that poor pot alone!” 

“Whaa—” The question is pierced by a large yawn, “What’s going on?” Percy asks sleepily. For a ministry official of his caliber, it’s almost laughable to see him in anything other than a dress robe and tie. Yes, by the way, he does have the matching shoes and sleep cap to the pajamas. 

“Percy dear—” Gred starts off, leaping off the couch and slinging his arms around his older brother's equally lanky shoulders. 

“You’d be an absolute _tart_ —” Forge, canceling the levitation spell on the pot, slings his arm on Percy’s other shoulder

“The sweetest, most delicious tart to exist in the history of tarts—”

“No! Better than a tart, you’d be an absolute _pie_.”

“Yes! Brother dearest, you’d be an absolute pie if you’d just do us a little—”

“Insignificant, so small you’ll probably forget about it within the day—”

“Favor?” They ask in unison, both with shit-eating grins on their faces. Percy groans. 

“I’m going back to sleep.” 

“Oh! Don’t be like that, Brother Dearest—”

“We have a business to run and—”

“With the Quidditch World cup 10 hours—”

“And 30 minutes away, we can’t waste all our time—”

“Patching holes, when we could have our sweet—”

“Generous—”

“ _Pie_ of a brother do it for us.” 

“Hey, where’d you go?” During their little back and forth, Percy managed to slip away from their grasps and was already at the top of the first landing. 

“Goodnight,” Percy calls in their general direction, blind without his spectacles. His lack of foresight, literally, is what causes the tragedy that befalls him (also literally). 

“Bloody fu—” Tripping over the muggle nightstand in the hallway, an avalanche of unanswered mail captures Percy, trapping him in a parchment-lined grave. The mahogany (a muggle wood) nightstand was used as a dumping ground for bills, more bills, and the stray Harry Potter fan letters— Percy is man enough to admit he occasionally goes through those envelopes to look for sweets. 

“Ickle Percy-kins!” Gred fake gasps. 

“Such profanity!” Forge solemnly agrees, pretending to faint in Gred’s arms. 

“Oh, shove it.” Percy grumbles, brushing the letters off and restacking the mail with wandless magic. 

“What’s this?” He murmurs to himself, thrusting an envelope with blood-red goblin writing on the front. A note from the bank. 

“To whomever it may be con-concerned” Percy squints as he murmurs to himself the letter’s content, the script doing bad things to his spectacle-less eyes. “The vault in your ownership is shut down due to the overdrawing of the monetary amount and— 

“Our assets are frozen!?” Percy burst into his parent’s room, Arthur snoring with his mouth wide open and Molly putting the brush down on her vanity’s cracked surface. The wind picks up outside, causing the windows to rattle and the wooden beams to creak and groan. 

“Dear, what are you talking about?” 

“Read this.” Molly takes the letter from Percy’s outstretched hand, skimming the contents before letting out a breathy laugh. 

“Oh, dear, don’t worry about this.” 

“How can I not be worried about this? Someone’s bankrupted us!”

“No, we’ve given our money to Dumbledore’s cause. He approached me the other day, some right ominous things are going on and he needed financial support.” 

“Mum, _we_ need financial support and you just gave it all away to Dumbledore?! He’s a senile old codger that’s one bounce away from bonkers!” 

“Don’t talk about Professor Dumbledore like that, young man. He’s done so much for us, this is the least we can do for him.” Like the storm outside, Percy’s anger only grows. 

“All he’s done is condemn us to yet another lifetime of poverty! Of having our name slandered in the ministry. What will happen to the twins? Ron? Ginny? We could barely afford their school supplies this year!” 

“Dumbledore will find a way to provide.”

“Dumbledor is not the fucking Messiah, Mum!” Molly gasps, anger overtaking her features. 

“How dare you use that language with me! I will not condone this type of behavior under my roof, young man.” 

“Fine, then I’m leaving. Someone needs to provide for this family and it obviously isn’t going to be you.” The words slipped out of Percy’s mouth before he had a chance to stop it. But, still angry at his parents’ poor decisions, he gives in to his anger and leaves, slamming the door on his way out. 

He’s not deaf, he can hear the sobs that wrack his mother’s body as he walks away. He doesn’t have hypoesthesia, he can feel the hot tears that fall down his own face. Regardless of the pain in his chest, he holds his head with surface-deep pride as he commences the walk of shame to his room. 

Glasses resting low on his nose, his bags are packed within the hour and miniaturized to fit in his pocket. The rain drenches him in his pajamas, the wind blows away his matching hat and the mud ruins his slippers. At the edge of the wards, between the torrential rain, he can barely make out Fred and George staring at him from the safety of the Burrow as he aparates away. 

“Mum?” Gred asks in a small voice, the twins on the floor of the bedroom comforting their still sobbing mother. 

“Don’t worry, mum. Percy’s just being a git right now. He didn’t mean it.” The twins, actually repairing the leaks, were only able to catch the end of the fight between Molly and Percy. But, for them, it was enough for their opinions of Percy to be solidified. 

Molly sobs harder. 

The Weasley clock on the mantle chimes as Percy leaves. His clock hand whirls around the entire circumference of the device before settling on home.

The apartment complex Percy lives in could be described in a number of ways. Disgusting, a death trap, a general eyesore to those that look— and these are just some of the more generous comments. But, to Percy, his room is a place of pride. He bought it with his own money (kind of) and, although he’s not religious in any sense of the word, he did have a lot of fun Christening the rooms (he had to get creative in the kitchen). 

“Barty?” Percy calls out to the lit apartment, dropping his keys in a wooden bowl with ‘Home sweet home’ carved into it. The sweet scent of frosting and cake fills the room, taking some of the stresses of the day out of the designated male redhead. 

“What?” The person in question calls from the kitchen, donning a ridiculous frilly apron and sleep pants. His chest and feet are bare, showing long scar lines running across his back and ending at the heels of his foot. 

“Merlin, Red what happened to you?” Percy looks down, then takes out his wand and casts a drying spell on his clothes, walking to their room to unpack and pull out clean clothes. “Weren’t you supposed to be at your parents until after the tournament?” Barty calls from the kitchen, idly mixing the floating bowl of frosting with a ‘borrowed’ wand while he flips through a muggle magazine. 

Shame pulls at his stomach, but the anger and fear that Percy feels are enough to overcome the pitiful emotion. He rants at Barty from the room, pulling on dry, clean, clothes. 

“My parents are being unbelievable idiots right now. You know how poor we are right? We’re at the point where Ron has to use our _Aunt’s_ dress robes! Despite our crushing poverty and horrible reputation at the ministry, Mum still thought it was a good idea to sign away the rest of our money to restart the bloody Order of Phoenix! LIke that fucking not-so-secret society will help anything if Voldemort” Barty winces and Percy rolls his eyes, “comes back. Oh, shut up Barty, would you rather I call him Tom?” He closes his dresser drawer with a snap, flouncing onto the kitchen counter. 

Barty snorts, closing his magazine and leaning his head on Percy’s knee. “I’d rather just forget he exists all together, thank you very much. I take it you snapped at them?” Silence. 

“Oh no.” 

Percy scowls at him, “Hey! I, well, I might have made Mum cry before I left and— oh shit, I made my mother cry. Oh shit, I _made my mother fucking cry._ ” It hits Percy all at once, the guilt he’d been trying to suppress. Percy’s hands find their way into his hair, pulling at the strands in a twisted form of punishment. 

“Oi! Oi, enough of that.” Barty stands, grabbing Percy’s hands in his own scarred one. “I swear, some days you’re worse than Winky.” Barty murmurs in Percy’s hair, the other man situated against his chest as he sobs. 

A soft ringing noise breaks the atmosphere, emanating from the oven. “That’d be the cake.” Barty pulls himself away from Percy, passing the other a slightly clean dishcloth to wipe away the tears.

“Wh-what’re we celebrating?” Percy asks, smearing his face with the residual flour on the dishcloth. The other shrugs.

“I don’t know. The fact that I was lucid enough to get out of bed and make a cake?” The floating bowl full of frosting lowers onto the counter next to the cake. 

“It’ll be a while before the cake is cool enough to frost. Besides, I made way too much icing for it.” Barty freezes, then leers at Percy, one hand on the bowl of frosting and the other entwining in Percy’s. 

“C’mon I know a good way to cheer you up and get rid of the extra frosting.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percy wakes up to terrifying news.

The sun heating his exposed skin is what wakes Percy the next day. Groggily rolling around in the sheets, he feels for Barty’s scarred figure only to come up with a cold spot next to him. Groaning, Percy tries to get out of bed, only to get his wiry legs tangled up in the sheets, landing on the floor with a solid thud. 

“Fuck.” 

Hours pass and Percy splays himself on their giant couch enraptured in a muggle TV series, still much too sore even after the  _ many _ potions he took for the ache in his bum from last night’s  _ activities _ to do anything more _. _ Night has fallen and half of the cake from last night magically disappeared, along with two-thirds of a case of butterbeer. 

Percy is in the middle of another piece of cake, when Hermes flies in through the open window, a copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in his talons. Giving him the owl treats from his cage in the corner, Percy takes the rolled-up newspaper. In bold letters, the headline reads **“Terror at the Quidditch World Cup. Dark Mark Ignites, Unprecedented Wizard Panic”**. Percy stares intently at the death eater in the picture, their cape billowing in the smoke from the fires. The cogs in his head are turning with a new plan. 

Perhaps he should use this article as a sign that he needs to go back to his family? To protect them from the upcoming onslaught of bigotry and dark magic that will surely overcome them? Or, perhaps this article is a sign that his relationship with Barty needs to stop? That he needs to move on because sleeping with a death eater will surely land him in trouble with ministry if they ever found out? 

Or, maybe, he’s just found the perfect way to save his family’s financial problem. 

Percy goes into the main office, pulling out muggle printer paper and a BIC pen, sitting down in his chair, usual script replaced with printed scrawl while he crafts a letter, no, an arrangement, to Lucius Malfoy. 

Surprise, surprise, Barty is not the first death eater that Percy has slept with. 

Two years ago, Percy’s family won a lottery drawing and went on a trip to Egypt. 

Two years ago, Percy finally came to terms with himself that he liked men. 

Two years ago, Percy invented  _ Chris Kin _ and perfected glamor charms so he could go out to bars and hook up with men. 

Two years ago, Lucius Malfoy was the first and only man. 

“Two whiskeys, straight.” A warm body presses against his back, so close that Percy could feel the rumble in his chest as the man behind him orders for them. A small part of Percy freaks out when he recognizes that voice— has _ fantasized about that voice. _ Nevertheless, he tilts his head towards the voice, his American accent sounding harsh to his ears. 

“Not very straight pressed up against me like that.” The voice chuckles, a hand coming up to cradle his cheekbone. Although it may sound cliche, Percy’s heart very nearly stopped when those vibrations ratted  _ his  _ chest, making his mind go nuts when he thought about what else that mouth could  _ shake. _

“Don’t tell my wife that,” Lucius says, stealing the seat next to Percy and taking the whiskey in front of him, a hand propping itself on Percy’s knee. 

“Charming. I’m Chris, Chris Kin.” Lucius puts his glass up in a mock cheer, Percy following suit. They drain their drinks, liquid courage in muggle form. 

“Lucius Malfoy. My hotel room is next door, join me?” Percy flushes, his mind a little buzzed from the whiskey— he later learns from tasting actual whiskey that the bartender watered it down— but still working into overdrive about Lucius fucking Malfoy, in bed, thrusting his — 

“Yes.” 

When Percy awakens the next day, he feels sore and groggy. Not being a virgin is a new thing, but he can get used to it. While Percy holds his head in pain from the possible hangover— which he later learns is nothing after going on a two-day bender with Oliver AND Marcus— or from the overuse of his magic in holding the glamor, Lucius is pulling on a muggle jacket to complete his three-piece suit, platinum blonde hair tied up in an elegant low ponytail. On the bedside is a briefcase that Lucius gestures to. 

“Thank you very much. I trust this will be enough for you?” Percy lies in the bed in stunned silence as Lucius unlatches the briefcase to reveal it packed with Egyptian currency. 

“What?” His voice is hoarse, probably from all the screaming from last night, and  _ why the bloody hell is Lucius Malfoy giving him money for sex? _

“I thought not. You were a  _ very _ good bed partner, if I hadn’t known any better I would say this is your first time. Here.” Lucius pulls out from under the bed another briefcase, putting it on top of the other one. Then, he places a piece of paper in Percy’s palm. 

“My address. Although I live in London, I would pay for your airfare to see you again. Unlike my wife, you make particularly… ravishing sounds.” Percy, still naked underneath the covers of the bed with  _ something _ leaking out of him, just sits there in mild shock. Lucius, however, looks undisturbed, picking up his cane and a brown satchel, kissing Percy fully on the lips, before heading to the door. 

“I have a meeting to attend to, feel free to order room service before you leave.” Then he leaves, the door closing behind him with a click. 

“What the fuck.” 

In hindsight, when Percy reflects about  _ that night _ in bed after he sneaks back into his family’s hotel room, perhaps he should have felt guilt. After all, he just caused a man to cheat on his  _ wife with whom he has a child _ . 

But, back to present times, when a pressed envelope shows up in Percy’s mail slot with the Malfoy crest, perhaps literally sleeping with the enemy isn’t so bad. Especially when the enemy is filthy rich and wants to get filthy in the sheets with our Gingered Protagonist. 

_ Berkeley Square, 2 pm, the bench in front of the swans.  _

It’s the day after the attack on the Quidditch World Cup, and Percy’s window has been flooded with various owls from both his work and ministry. He only responds to the ministry appointed owls, the other birds he takes the letter and shoos them out (no matter how painful or plentiful Errol’s bites are). 

There’s both much to see and nothing to see at Berkley square. At the far end of the park, underneath the quaint grotto, there is an Interpol agent and an NSA agent discussing interagency espionage. Along the path of the walking trail through the park is a bench where two immortal beings sit in a discussion on how best to retrieve an…  _ early retirement _ . 

But, on another bench, directly in front of the family of swans, sits a man in a three-piece muggle suit, his platinum hair tied back in a low ponytail, right hand clutching a skull capped cane. Percy, now  _ Chris,  _ strolls to this bench. 

Lucius isn’t the only one embracing muggle culture, but perhaps Percy fits in a little better for people his age. Gone are the stuffy dress robes and slicked back ginger hair, crooked spectacles lying low on his freckled nose. 

Now, scruffy black hair falls into dark brown eyes— spectacle-less,  _ Chris _ embraces contacts. Tight black band t-shirts and tighter skinny jeans adorn his body, the look capped off with various bits of spike-themed necklaces and bracelets. The ear piercings were Marcus’ idea. The nose piercing (hidden from his parents with a minor disillusionment charm) was not. 

“Nice to see you again, handsome.” Percy is the first one to initiate conversation and physical touch this time, pressing a chaste kiss against Lucius’ cheek, feeling the faint trace of stubble. Unlike the first time as Chris, Percy has the full confidence of anonymity, after all, if an elitist like Lucius Malfoy could not see through his glamors, who would? 

Lucius lets out a rough chuckle, hands coming up to capture Percy’s face into another kiss, his lips meeting Percy’s chapped ones. 

They come up for air a bit later, Percy stealing a seat beside the other man— breathless. 

“I’ve forgotten how much I’ve missed that. You’ve gotten quite a lot better since the last time we’ve met.” 

“Hmm, a little practice doesn’t hurt.” Well,  _ little _ is not what he’d call Oliver. Or Marcus. Or Barty. 

“Quite.” His features twist up into a smirk, a hand settling itself upon Percy’s knee. “So, what did you have in mind?” 

Percy repositions, his head pillowed on Lucius' shoulder, his hand entwining themselves with Lucius, fiddling with the other’s wand calloused fingers. His eyes are downcast, lips thrust out, hair just barely falling into his eyes— an easy lay. 

“I’ve been falling behind on my loans for college— I’m attending a local one here in London. At this rate, without divine intervention, I’ll probably have to drop out and move back to the states. So… I was thinking…” His voice trails off, hand entwining with Lucius’, “About what we did in Egypt.” 

“I admit, Mr.Kin—” 

“Call me Chris, Lucius.” 

“Alright then, Chris, I admit that I really enjoyed your company in Egypt, but my work has certain… policies against our type of relationship.” 

“But what’re mere policies in the face of our… bond?” Lucius does not look swayed, so Percy switches tactics. 

Relinquishing the hold on the other’s hands, Percy starts praying that the four other people in the park are too ingrained in their conversations to notice what he’s about to do. Crowding closer, Percy swings one of his legs over the other’s man’s lap, so he’s quasi-straddling him, their faces inches apart, and whispers into his ear. 

“Now’s the time to be selfish, Lucius. C’mon, what’re a few nights for the rest of your life? Whisk me away to a hotel room, I won’t tell a soul.” Bald-faced lies, but hey, who’s counting? Definitely not Lucius, whose face is flushed— and judging by the thing poking Percy’s thigh that’s definitely not a wand, he can guess where all the blood went. 

Lucius clears his throat, hands resting gingerly on Percy’s waist. “I’ll send a car around to pick you up next Wednesday at 6. I already have your address from the letter.” Relief shoots through Percy, the tension that was building up along his shoulders dropping. 

“Thank you.” Percy cups Lucius’ face, the stubble becoming more prominent, and presses his lips fully against the other’s. 

“Mum! Look at all the birdies!” Someone clears their throat. Percy and Lucius separate to find a mother glaring at them, covering her daughter’s eyes from their… spectacle. 

“Sorry, Ma’am. We’ll be going now.” 

Lucius drops him off in front of the apartment complex, despite possessing an avid hatred for muggles, he has no qualm against using and operating their finer vehicles. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you in? Lucius asks, eyeing the decrepit neighborhood while calculating how much it would take to bribe the other away from the current district. Percy tries very hard to mask his giggles with laughs. Because he’s a man. 

“No, but thank you.” Percy cradles Lucius’ hands in his once more, smiling at the man. “I’ll see you next week, Lucius.” Before Percy can walk away, Lucius pulls him into the car, stealing his lips one more time. 

Oliver splays over the couch, his legs hanging off the top and head buried in a Quidditch tactical book. Marcus, on the other hand, is in the kitchen, pouring three glasses of the good butterbeer that Percy keeps when he wants to get sloshed but not wake up with an atrocious hangover the next day. 

“Percy!” Oliver greets, hopping off the couch like the overexcitable puppy he is, practically dragging the poor man through the door with brute strength. 

“Oi! Oliver, down. Bad dog!” Marcus scolds from the kitchen, receiving a middle finger from the aforementioned Oliver. 

“Oh shove it up your arse, Flint. Perce, dear Merlin I—”

“We, Gryffindork” Marcus inputs, “

“ _ We _ were so bloody worried when we saw your family and you weren’t there. Then when they told us that you had  _ work _ , we started freaking out even more because usually, that means your off getting cock from Barty  _ but Barty was there  _ and he saved us, even though Flint almost gave him a black eye, and so when we got back here you still  _ weren’t here— _ ” Oliver was cut off when a mug of butterbeer was shoved into his chest, a hand on his mouth pushing him off Percy with muscles built over years of practice on the pitch. 

“For Merlin’s sake, Wood would you just shut the fuck up!” No sooner had that left his mouth, Marcus pulled the now glamor-less Percy into a fierce kiss, messy and filthy and just a tiny bit desperate. 

When they break for air, Marcus uses his limited wandless magic to levitate another mug of butterbeer to Percy’s awaiting hand. “You’ve got some explaining to do, Red.” 

“The couch?” 

“The couch.” 

The couch. Besides the beds, the couch is the largest thing in the house. Overstuffed and flooded with pillows, its cushions have been through many lazy days in passionate make-out sessions. Right now, the couch is where Percy awkwardly sips his butterbeer between the hulking masses of his boyfriends, racking his brain to explain the conversation he just had with Lucius. 

“So. My family is broke” Well, thatʻs one way to do it. 

“Merlinʻs balls, how the fuck did that happen?”

“Shit, whatʻd you call the place you guys were in before.” Percy rolls his eyes, huffing a little at Flintʻs tactlessness. 

“We were doing  _ fine _ , Marcus, but because Mum and Dad decided to donate literally all of our savings to Dumbledoreʻs personal hit squad our vault is empty.” 

Oliver takes a sharp intake, downing his drink from the stress of it all. “So Perce, whatʻs the plan?” 

“What?” Marcus snorts. 

“You really want us to believe that Perfect Prefect Percy doesnʻt have a plan for this? Cʻmon what is it, blackmail an Auror? Sell Ministry information? Rob Gringotts blind?” 

“Merlin, who do you think I am?!” Percy exclaims, trying hard not to laugh at the thought of him going into Gringotts and robbing them blind, muggle-style. 

“Really Marcus, if Percy were to do anything itʻd be to offer tutoring lessons to the midgets at Hogwarts— youʻd make a killing with the NEWT Potion students.” 

“Well…” Guilt tears at him. Those suggestions would have been the most obvious ones. Yeah, it would take a little more time, but it would be morally right. 

“I, Merlin…” He scrubs at his face, willing the words to come out, “remember that story I told you about, how I lost my virginity to that older politician on the Egypt trip?” He received twin nods, prompting him to continue. “So, that older politician is actually a local one and I didnʻt want to say anything because you both know him.” 

“I doubt it, Maʻs the only one that keeps up with the muggle politicians.” 

Flint, on the other hand, shoots him a dark look, aware of the sinister intentionʻs in some of the wizarding politicians. “Oliver, heʻs not talking about muggles. It's not Parkinson or Davis, is it?” Those were the men whose daughters had the most nightmares in the girls' Slytherin dorms, Marcus vividly remembers the screaming from Parkinson as Greengrass and her sister calmed her down in the common room. 

Percy looks down at his butterbeer as if the sight of the liquid would give him courage. 

“Itʻs actually Malfoy.” 

“What the actual FUCK, Weasley!?” Marcus yells. Percy flinches, the sound even more deafening due to the close proximity. 

Then Oliver proceeds to follow it up, the accusations piling up like the stones accumulating in his stomach, “Perce are you out of your bloody mind!? What were you thinking? Do you know what he can do with this information? Heʻs literally in charge of your job, of Ronʻs education! If he wanted to, he could pull out his funding and Hogwarts would have to cut their funding for certain things and it might include Quidditch and—” 

“Bloody fuckinʻ hell, Wood, shut the everloving fuck up and let Percy continue with his story. As much as I want to yell at him some more for his shitty taste in men, thatʻs probably not the point of this.” 

“Shitty taste in men? Mind you, I picked you and Wood, didnʻt I?” His cheek is the only thing getting him through this conversation, and the minor liquid courage Percy gets from the butterbeer. 

“Only confirms it, sweetheart,” Marcus comments drily, topping off everyoneʻs drink with another round of butterbeer, which Percy gratefully took a drink from. 

“So, I slept with Lucius but because of my glamour he didnʻt— and still doesnʻt— know that Iʻm the person he had an affair with. This morning, I had a meeting with him under the guise of my glamor and we decided to…” Percyʻs face heats up as he trails off. Merlin, heʻs such an idiot. 

“To what, Percy?” Maybe itʻs supposed to sound encouraging, but with the grimace and blatant worry on Oliverʻs face it comes out as more of a grim questioning as if the speaker has lost any hope of retrieving good news. Oliverʻs cup is drained of butterbeer, having downed it the second Marcus refilled it. 

“To trade sex for money. He thinks Iʻm a muggle college student attending university in London and canʻt afford my student loans.” 

Clunk. 

The empty mug of butterbeer rolls underneath the tasteful coffee table, slipping from Oliverʻs stiff hands. 

Shatter!

Drips of the butter liquid plop on Percy’s pants as the glass cracks under Marcus’ grip, his palms bleeding from the small cuts of the glass. 

“Marcus!” Oliver slips out of his dazed reverie, leaning over Percy with his wand and administering basic first aid to him. Percy cleans up the spillage, which had started cascading onto the carpet. 

When the skins on his palms and fingers finished stitching themselves back together, Percy gave Marcus a mug filled to the brim with Butterbeer. A mug, this time, so it has a tougher time breaking than the glass. 

“Careful, that glass couldʻve done some serious damage.” Marcus slams the mug down, not hard enough to crack but hard enough to send almost half the Butterbeer onto the coffee table. Oliver curses, already working on cleaning up the mess. 

“That glass could do some serious damage!? Percy.” Percy winces, he knows how mad Marcus must be if heʻs using Percyʻs first name. “How about we talk about how you didn’t come to us first about this? What, you donʻt trust us? Iʻve had to share a dorm with his kid, and let me tell you that Lucius can do beyond serious damage with the purist bullshit that he practically preaches. Hell, what makes you think that he wonʻt just kill you to keep your mouth shut? He’s not a good person, Percy, and getting involved with him could get you killed.” 

“While all of those are valid points, I believe—” 

“No! Don’t valid-point-bullshit me. Percy, I care about you and I know that getting involved with Lucius will only get you hurt. What if your glamor goes down mid-fuck? Or you do accidental magic and he makes you join the Death Eaters?” 

“Damn and I thought I was the ‘mom’ of this relationship.” 

“Shut the fuck up Wood, why are you not helping me convince Percy that this is a horrible idea.” Wood just shrugs, crouching low to pick up his mug and leaning against Percyʻs shoulder, entwining his fingers with Marcus in that casual way only two people in love could do. 

“Itʻs his body Marcus, not our call. We all agreed when going into this relationship that it would be more or less open.” Marcus pointedly looks away, as if a child being told off for not sharing a toy. “Besides, none of us can provide enough money to help the Weasley’s get back afloat.” Oliver turns to Percy. “Speaking of which, how did your parent’s tell the rest of the Weasley clan that you guys got no money?” 

Percy feels sick to his stomach, “I found out on my own. When I brought it up to the letter, Mum and I got into a massive fight that ended messily. I… I made her cry.” Percy looks down in shame. 

Perhaps it was divine punishment, having to resort himself to sell sex for money because he made his Mum cry. 

“Ah shit, get over here Red.” Flint sets his mug down, pulling Percy into a hug. Oliver comes up from behind, smooshing Percy in between the both of them. He just lets it happen, the weight in front and in back of him comforting him, centering him. 

“I know you didn’t cause it, and this whole thing is just fuckinʻ shitty. But, Merlin, Lucius is dangerous. Please. Just. Be careful.” 

“I promise.” 

Marcus groans, resting his head in the crook of Percy’s neck. 

“This is too emotional for me. Can we fuck or something?” 

“How eloquent.” 

“Oh, stuff it, Weasley.” 

“I’m not sure he’s the one that’s going to be doing the stuffing, Flint.” 

“Is that a promise, Oliver?” Weasley asks, lowering his voice. Oliver shoots him a wicked grin.

“Yup.” 

They didn’t make it to the bed. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The meeting with Lucius, along with some bad news from Oliver and Marcus.

Next week Wednesday rolls around and Percy is in his Chris glamor, climbing into a ritzy black car. The driver, most likely a house-elf judging by his height, is hidden behind a large hat. Lucius is in the backseat of the car, hair tied up with a Slytherin green ribbon and holding two glasses of champagne. Looking as aristocratic as usual, Percy feels a tad underdressed compared to the other’s three-piece suit. Of course, being underdressed is the whole point of it. 

Lucius hands him a glass. “You look wonderful, Chris.” 

Percy flushes. It wasn’t cross-dressing if you wore pants, right? Well, that’s the motto Percy is sticking with. A dress, or a tight pillowcase, same thing, done in orange and silver silk fabrics, clings to Percy. Of course, he wears pants (if the tight things clinging to his legs can be called that) that really don’t do much to hide the fact he is a guy, again, not crossdressing. He also wears heels, silver stilettos and silver themed jewelry glitz in the cloudy daylight.

And damn it all, Percy felt pretty. 

“You as well, Lucius.” He seems to preen at the compliment, which is well deserved. 

“A toast then, to a wonderful night.” 

“And to new beginnings.”

Lucius chuckles, “To new beginnings.” Their glasses clink against each other, Percy likes the sound. 

It’s three in the morning when Percy gets back. The same car drops him off, Lucius in his bed sleeping, content. 

“Thank you, sir,” Percy mutters to the house-elf when he gets out of the car, cradling his heels in one hand a briefcase in the other. 

“Winky be thankin’ you, Sir, thankin you very much.” The car drives away and Percy feels sated, tired, and a little bit hungry. 

When he gets home, vanilla is thick in the air and the fireplace is alive with the timid crackles and pops of a fire. Oliver is on the couch, nursing a mug of Butterbeer, spiked with vanilla, and a Quidditch book. 

“That looks delicious.” Percy comments, wiggling out of his wiggle dress and discarding the heels by the doorway. 

“Mmh, I added that vanilla syrup Barty got from that muggle place down the street.” 

“Wasn’t talking about the booze.” Oliver chuckles, Percy collapses on top of the other, naked save for the leggings. 

“Absolutely shameless, you are. What happened to that shy Gryffindor who’d always come back with a black eye from the Ravens?” Oliver says, closing the book and giving Percy his —cough—  _ full _ attention, arms wrapping around the other’s waist. 

“This other, completely shameless Gryffindor sent all of the Ravenclaws to Madame Pomfrey if I remember correctly.” Oliver just laughs. 

“Good on him, that Gryffindor sounds like he’s got his priorities straightened out.” 

“I’m just glad Marcus didn’t find out about it until after they were in the infirmary.” 

“Yeah, he’s probably the main reason you’re the only Gryffindor that didn’t get picked on by the Slytherins.” 

Percy groans, resting his head on Oliver’s chest, hands sliding underneath the other’s shirt. 

“Merlin, that was such a crazy time. I thought it was so fucked. I mean, not only do I like guys, but I like more than one.” 

“See Perce, this is all just evidence to show that one day, you will accomplish world domination through an all-male harem.” 

“Well then, consider yourself blessed that you’re one of the first ones to be indoctrinated.” Oliver’s chuckles are smothered by Percy’s kiss, and under the soft light of the fire, they wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Oliver’s just dipped his hand below the waistband of Percy’s pants when the door slams open. 

“Bloody fuck!” Oliver yells, pulling one of the throw blankets over Percy to preserve his modesty from the prying eyes of the neighbors. 

“It’s just Marcus,” Percy says, straddling Oliver again to begin where they left off. 

“Oi! None of that you bloody rabbits.” Marcus walks over to them, separating them until Marcus is between Oliver’s splayed legs and Percy is in his lap, the throw blanket pooling at his elbows.

“It’s not like you to stop us without joining in, what’s wrong?” The gingered one asks, tugging the sheets closer to his body and leaning his weight against Marcus. 

Marcus lets out a sigh, rubbing at the bags underneath his eyes. “My Da dragged me away after Quidditch practice. Thought I was going to get a lecture about takin’ over for the Flint bloodline.” Oliver nods, sitting up a bit more. 

“Instead, I get taken to his study. The head of Durmstrung and Professor Snape were already waiting for us when we arrived.” Marcus takes a deep breath, jaw clenched from withheld anger. 

“He-who-must-not-be-named is coming back. And they want me to be there when he does.” Blunt nails sink into his palm in an attempt to calm down. It doesn’t work. “FUCK. I don’t want to be a Death Eater. But what choice do I have? I’m as good as dead if I say no. It ended with me not saying anything, and Professor Snape telling me to think about it.” Percy is the first one to snap. 

“Oh, bloody hell you are. You’re going to tell him that there’s no chance in hell you’ll be joining up with the Death Eaters or anyone associated with them. You’re not your father’s bloody cock sleeve Flint, make your own bloody decisions!” 

“You sure know a lot about cock sleeve, don’t you, Weasley,” Marcus says, eyeing the position Percy and Oliver are currently in.

“Both of you, shut the fuck up!” Oliver snaps. Both petulantly look away from each other, Marcus still flushed and Percy turning the same color as his hair. 

“No one will be turning into a Death Eater or a cocksleeve, alright!? As much as I hate being the voice of reason, right now we need to stay calm and figure out what we’re going to do.” Oliver’s resolution is met with silence.

“Shove it, Wood.” Marcus sneers, bodily turning to face Oliver. 

Oliver shoots him a cocky grin. “Make me, Flint.”

Hi readers! You might be wondering about the significance of this bit of dialogue. Well, let’s take a pause on this bit of tension with our lovebirds and hop into their Seventh Year. 

-Flashback-

It’s Percy Weasley’s last year at Hogwarts, and instead of angsting over his dilemma of falling in love with not one but two of his friends, he’s running around the castle grounds in search of his idiot roommate and hardcore crushes. Throughout dinner, Oliver had been glaring at the Slytherin table, specifically Marcus Flint (hardcore crush number two). 

“I’ll be back in a bit, Perce, don’t wait up.” Is all the warning Percy got before Oliver abruptly stood from the table and marched out of the Great Hall, Flint following not two minutes later. And Percy wasn’t worried. Well, Percy wasn’t worried three hours ago. But now it’s two in the morning and Oliver still hasn’t made it back. 

This leads Percy traipsing through the dark castle in only his sleep shirt and pants, a weak Lumos charm lighting his way. 

BANG

A crash from one of the abandoned classrooms makes Percy jump out of his skin, nearly tripping over his own feet. Blood drains from his face when he realizes the crash came from an abandoned dueling classroom. 

Percy slams the door open, the sound amiss in the wave of destruction that Oliver and Marcus create. Jinxes, hexes, and minor dark spells fly from their wands, the bright colors never hitting the opposition. If Percy weren’t so mad, he’d be in awe at their coordination— Oliver ducking his head at an orange hex hurled at him, Marcus jumping to the left at the wave of blue energy thrown towards him. If Percy weren’t red from anger, he’d be red from his heart jumping into his throat at the purpose behind the duel. 

“Fuck you and your intentions, Flint! I saw the way you’ve been looking at Perce. Keep your slimy snake hands off of him.” 

“My hands can do whatever the bloody hell Percy wants, Wood!” Marcus screams back, tossing a violently magenta spell, the hex crashing into the wall behind Wood as he dodges it. “Shove it, Wood!” 

“Make me, Flint.” 

The spells increase, the castors renewed by a reinforcement of their purpose— to protect the one they love. Yeah, Percy would probably be choking on his words if he wasn’t so mad. 

But Percy is fucking pissed. 

“OLIVER BLOODY WOOD AND MARCUS FUCKING FLINT.” And just like that, they stop, wide-eyed, equal “oh shit” expressions plastered on their faces. 

And that, my readers, is the beginning of their wonderful relationship 

  
  


Marcus, hand still fisted in Oliver’s collar, does indeed make Oliver shove it, by shoving Oliver’s lips against his own. 

“Wow. It certainly didn’t go like that the last time.” 

“Get over here, Weasley.”

There was certainly a lot going on in their lives, but they were helpless against the impending threat of poverty and possible terrorism enlistment. Really, the only thing they could do at this moment was to find comfort in the comforts of each other’s bodies. Maybe it’s not the most… correct thing to do at this moment. But sometimes the right way and the chosen way aren’t the same things. 

Frost curls on Percy’s dilapidated window as September blows its frosty breeze through Europe. School started up at Hogwarts, although Percy had ignored any letters from his family and walked the other way when Arthur tried to talk with him. Whenever he sees the older Weasley, Percy tells himself that he’s ignoring Arthur because he’s mad at his family’s stupidity. Not because of the shame of sleeping with a significantly older man (who had treated his family with disdain since birth) creeps into his heart whenever he sees another member of the family. 

Speaking of which, the sheets of Lucius Malfoy’s bed are slowly becoming a luxury that Percy, or,  _ Chris,  _ is getting highly acclimated to. If only he weren’t so tired from keeping his glamour (and other things) up for such a long time, he could enjoy the comforts of silk and a warm body better. 

The second session with Lucius was just as extravagant (and vigorous) as the first. Unlike the first meeting, however, both Percy and Lucius were too tired to get up from the bed. Which led to Chris awakening to the smell of breakfast food in the comforts of both Lucius’ sheets and arms. 

“Good morning, Darling. I have to head for work in a little bit, but stay for breakfast?” And how could he say no to that? Plus, Lucius’ voice was gravelly from just waking up (and from the loud… sounds that came out of him the night prior), so Chris nods, rolling over to come face-to-chest with Lucius. 

“Sounds wonderful, Lucius.” Lucius. Merlin, even after he shouted that name for a majority of the night it still sounds so bizarre. 

Their breakfast passes by with sleepy giggles and deep chuckles, Chris taking it upon himself to feed Lucius his food. Perhaps they got a little carried away with the syrup, but there was no one else in the room to tell them otherwise. By the time they finish, both are in dire need of a shower. 

It’s the shower that makes both of them late. 

Hair still wet, Chris kisses Lucius goodbye, leaving the manor in the same clothes he entered in— silver studded pumps and a shimmery gray cocktail dress with a slit up to his hip bone (courtesy of Barty once he heard how he was getting money) but with the added accessory of another silver briefcase. Winky pulls up to his apartment at 8:50 and Chris has ten minutes to go from a pretty prostitute to perfect Percy. To say he hightails it is an understatement. 8:58 Percy is running to the alleyway.

As he steps through the floor, relief flood through his veins that work won’t nearly be as chaotic as his morning. That relief evaporates as he reads the Daily Prophet plopped on his desk, courtesy of Penny. The Triwizard Tournament. The Triwizard Bloody Tournament. Percy shakes his head, he refuses to deal with  _ that  _ particular piece of bullshit right now, so he sifts through the piling letters on his desk in search of other things to do. 

Letters from his family, ignoring that. Letters from Gringotts about his recent funds shifted to the top of the pile. A letter from Oliver probably with naughty pictures, putting that to the side for later. A letter from Hogwarts? Percy pauses, just holding the letter in his hand and running through who could have given him a letter from Hogwarts with access to the Hogwarts seal. 

“Nice of you to stay in touch with your siblings, Weatherby.” One of the passing interns, Donna (Denise? Debrah?) says, snickering at her own little jab at his last name. Ever since Crouch messed up his name everyone has taken to calling him Weatherby, despite the fact that he’s probably done more than all of them combined  _ times five _ . Shooting a glare at the cocky intern, Percy turns his attention back to the letter, quietly murmuring a diagnostic spell to check for any unsavory things. When it comes up clean, Percy opens the letter. 

A note, from the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Mad-Eye Moody. Instead of meeting elegant, pure-blood mandated loopy script with intricate curls and swoops, he comes face to face with crooked printed writing, multiple ink stains smearing the edges of the sheet. 

“Percy Weasley, 

Look kid, I know we had difficulties with communication when we had to do that joint investigation, but you’re a bright lad and you don’t deserve what’s coming to you. There are dark forces running amok out there, Weasley, and I don’t like how they’re converging around the ministry and Hogwarts. Keep those good runes on your person at all times. And, remember CONSTANT VIGILANCE. 

Signed, 

Auror Alastor Moody, 

Percy pockets the letter. 

Then turns his attention to the box with “To our dearest pie” written in crooked script, exotic chocolates wafting through the shrink wrap. 

Almost a month has passed since the letter. Fall is in full motion and it is the day after the first task of the Triwizard Tournament. But instead of discussing the various parties going on in each ministry department, let’s shift our view to the muggle world. Specifically, an out of the way dinner just on the outskirts of middle-class England— ‘Kope’. 

Edging between hipster and grimy, Kope is run by an older gentleman, Haʻawinamaikeakua, with salt and pepper in his long hair and smile lines around his eyes and mouth. Despite the warm demeanor, tribal tattoos covering scars tell a different story. The patrons of the shop are split down three ways. Either college students that need coffee, crack heads that need a place to stay out of the continuous rainy weather, or retired American military vets that drop in to spin a yarn with the owner. Like most coffee shops, pictures and portraits align the walls, unlike most shops these pictures are to honor the fallen soldiers in both British and American military services, from the Queen’s navy to the 442nd Infantry. 

Stuffed into the far booth, Percy, Marcus, and Oliver are crammed knee-to-knee. All of them have a large ceramic mug of either coffee or tea in front of them, still full and going cold. An extra grey mug of coffee sits untouched by Percy’s left elbow. Despite the cheery atmosphere of the shop, Henehene Kouʻaka playing lightly in the background, all three have a grimace adorning their features. 

“Are you positive that they meant disown?”

“I know my damn parents, Percy! When Da says to do something and you don’t do it, it means you’re out.” 

“That’s bullshit Oliver, I’ve met your father and he’s a perfectly reasonable man, of course, he’ll listen to— no, no, nevermind,” Percy mutters, looking back down at his cup of tea, not drinking it, just staring as the slowly dissipating steam comes off the liquid. 

“Yeah, Ma’s even worse. If I don’t take it they’re gonna kick me out flat on my arse.” 

“Same here. Father has actually tried small talk with me in an attempt to corner me about joining.” Marcus shudders, reflecting back to last Tuesday when the elder Flint tried to casually bring up “natural” muggle-born-related deaths. 

“Don’t you already have the Lordship?” Oliver asks.

Marcus nods but glares at his coffee mug. “Which is why they want me in with You-Know-Who. Having the Flints means having a good chunk of neutral families too.” 

Oliver scowls, directing his gaze to Percy. “What about you, Perce? Any word from the clan.” 

“The twins sent me a care package?”

He brightens up, remembering the twins from his days as Quidditch captain. “See, told you those two had a heart of gold.”

Percy winces. “Their nougats sent one of the newer interns to St.Mungo’s. Her nosebleed hasn’t stopped yet- I’m on suspension until further notice.” 

“Heart of gold, huh Wood?”

“Shut up, Flint.”

“Our lives are so bloody fucked, aren’t they?” 

The nippy October winds send the doors flying open. A man walks in, lanky and smothered by a thick coat and an even thicker scarf— the fabric tinged with purple and silver accents. Icy blonde hair and at least five piercings on his right ear, he looks nothing like what a respectable teacher should. He struts to their booth, claiming the empty seat at the end next to Percy.

“Cheers, I’ll drink to that.” 

They clink their mugs together. 

“So, how’s school...Professor?” Oliver grins wickedly.

“Oi! Ten points from Gryffindor.” 

“Stove it, Wood. Barty, what’s so important that we all needed to meet?” Usually, Barty would send Percy the letter then relate the news to Oliver and Marcus (under a glamor, of course, a different one for each person). 

“Voldemort” Two winces and an eye roll “is coming back. He’s got Pettigrew prepping everything, but the main chatter is that Potter’s going to be used as the sacrifice.”

Oliver curses. “Should we help him?”

“Actually...I had something else in mind.” Barty pulls out four muggle plane tickets. One way tickets to O’ahu, scheduled for May.

“The war is going to happen whether we want it to or not.” Barty’s voice, a little lower than his original due to the glamour spells, is rough and filled with something Percy thought he’d never see from the man again. Fear. Pure, unadulterated fear.

“And what happens when it does? Oliver.” He looks directly at the younger man. “You’re going to fight for Dumbledore, whether you want to or not. Flint.” Marcus scowls. “Marcus, they’re going to find you and force you to fight with Voldemort, or they’ll kill you. Weasley.” Percy glares. “You’ve got nothing left to lose but us- and any other way but this may just kill all of us.” Barty exhales, running a shaky hand through his dyed hair. “You guys are all I have left, all I really care about. I…I refuse to let you die over some stupid dispute about whether or not your blood makes you more than what you already are.” 

“I’m in,” Marcus says, breaking eye contact with Barty to look at the other people in the booth. “This war is bloody stupid. Let the idiots battle it out.” 

“Me too.” Oliver is next. “Like Barty said, the only thing we’ve got to lose is each other.” 

“But, Oliver, your sister!” Percy argues, “What will happen to her once Death Eaters spread to the muggle world or your team mates? Angelica, Alicia?” 

“Percy, my mates from Quidditch know what they’re getting into. Besides, my half-sister,” Oliver stresses the ‘half’ part, “hates me and lives with Mum in muggle Scotland. The Death Eaters would have to have a death wish if they really think they’re going to get past my Mum, or the neighbors, in her own country.” Percy thinks of a rebuttal but finds that he can’t. So he turns to Marcus. 

“Marcus, what about you? What’s going to happen to your Lordship, your line?” Marcus shrugs. 

“I’ll just transfer it to one of my cousins. C’mon, Weasley why are you hesitating?”

“What do you mean ‘why am I hesitating?’ You’re talking about leaving everything from our world behind, abandoning them when they possibly need us the most.” 

“Percy,” Oliver speaks up, green eyes meeting watery blue ones. “You’re fired from your job. I am a  _ reserve _ for a Quidditch team, Marcus is a glorified waterboy.” “Oi!” “And Barty is a wanted criminal. What can we do?” 

Oliver leans back in his seat, his expression still heavy-set. “Exactly.” But Percy fires back. 

“I have two older brothers. I have three younger brothers. And a little sister. Only Bill and Charlie have seen more of the war than I have. Only we know about our Uncle Fabian and Uncle Gideon. Only we know that they didn’t really die in the line of battle. That they died on the floorboard we hid under, in our home, screaming at the Death Eaters while t-they we-were.” Barty places a hand on him, lost in the memory of Bellatrix coming back, chanting “Kill the Weasleys, kill the Weasleys!”. Marcus pulls him into a one-sided hug. 

“My family is bloody frustrating, but they’re still my family. And until they’re not I’m going to stick by them- even if it’s from the shadows.” 

Barty scrubs at his face, again. “Alright. But, if you change your mind.” He waves the plane tickets, “we have till May.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! How was your day? Did you drink water? Is your sleeping schedule alright? 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter, please leave a review, even a small comment is perfectly fine!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things with Lucius come to a close, and Percy finds himself at Christmas dinner with the Weasley.

October winds change into November chill, Berkeley Square frosting over with the first snowfall of the year. Chris is back, hanging off Lucius’ arm, covered in a thick woolen coat. Instead of sitting on their bench, they walk leisurely on the trail, idly gazing at the other passer-bys. When they come to a small turn in the trail, next to the pond, Lucius stops. 

He turns to Chris, changing positions so they’re near chest-to-chest. Hands clothed in dragon leather hide grasp at Chris’ pale hands, his fingers warming up from the silent warming charm Lucius casts. 

“Thank you, my fingers were getting a bit nippy,” Chris says, pretending the warmth was from Lucius’ gloves and not magic. 

“We can’t see each other anymore.” Melancholy paints his words, his eyes never leaving Chris’ hands. 

“My work, as you know, has restrictions against what we do.” 

As Chris goes to interject, Lucius’ grip on his hands tightens, a silent plea for silence. Chris waits. 

“I will transfer the rest of the promised sum and more.” He takes a breath. “Chris, these past few months with you have been...magical. Thank you.” 

“Huh, this really is goodbye?” Chris asks, his stomach dropping out. With being fired from his job, Lucius may have been his last source of income. 

Lucius gives him a sad smile. “You’re a bright child, Chris. I hope my...funding will help you in your endeavors.” Then, a smirk. “Perhaps invite me to your graduation?”

“Yeah, I will.” What they have— had, was not love. But, as Chris leans in for that  _ one last kiss _ with Lucius, Percy thinks that, perhaps, it could have been.

Their last kiss wasn’t filled with passion or a drunken haze, it was sweet, wanting, too short. They didn’t, couldn’t, break apart until the air in their lungs completely dissipated— even then Percy still had a clutched onto Lucius’ sleeve, Lucius’ arms secured tightly around Percy’s middle. 

“Until we meet again?” Percy asks, but it comes out as more of a breathless whisper, his head leaning on Lucius’s shoulder in a quasi-hug. 

“Until we meet again.” 

As they walk their separate ways, Percy looks back. And sees Lucius' gaze, filled with something more than sadness. Percy waves. 

Lucius waves back. 

“You broke his fucking heart,” Oliver says, knee-deep in muggle whiskey. They’re at Kope again, the same booth at the back of the cafe. 

“Nah, Malfoy is stone cold,” Marcus says, shooting back his own drink— Moscow mule. “You ever saw the way he treats his kid?”

“He hits Draco?” Percy says, aghast. 

Marcus snorts. “He needs to notice he has a son to hit him first. Despite being the next Malfoy heir, Lucius doesn’t give a rat’s arse about him. Of course, that means he couldn’t punish him for what he does with Potter in the locker rooms.” 

Oliver groans, murmuring to the passing waiter for another drink— a double. 

“Oh bloody Merlin, don’t remind me. Please” Oliver gags on the thought. “I never wanted to know what they do with the snitch— Oh bloody  _ fuck _ Iʻm thinking about it again.” 

Percy rolls his eyes, even though his face is as red as his hair. He really  _ did not  _ need to know that. 

“Agh.” Oliver knocks back the whiskey, burning his throat on the way down. “Ok, well. Perce. Didn’t you stay at his house for breakfast? How many people would do that?” 

“I don’t know anyone who orders prostitutes.”

“You know Lucius.” 

“But he doesn’t  _ know me _ . He knows Chris— an alter-ego that I created, but not  _ me. _ ” 

Marcus raises his glass. “See? Even if Lucius was in love with the guy, the guy doesn’t exist. Cheers.”

They clink glasses, Percy toasting with his tea. 

There’s more idle talk, catching up with each other. Ever since Barty brought up the runaway plan, Oliver and Marcus have been planning elaborate schemes to ‘retire’ from their respective positions. 

“I’m going to fake a nervous breakdown. It’ll be epic— Skeeter will foam so much at the mouth she’ll be permanently at St.Mungo’s with me.” 

“Yes. And I suppose you’ll hang yourself with a sheet as soon as you get checked in?” Percy drily comments, nudging shoulders with Oliver. Oliver just laughs. 

“Yeah, something like that.” 

Marcus snorts. “Well, I’ve already decided which one of my cousins is getting my fortune. What about you, Perce?” 

“What about me?” 

“When—” Percy glares, so Marcus corrects himself. “ _ If _ you come with us, how would you do it?” 

Despite not wanting to leave, to run away and leave the rest of the Weasley’s behind, Percy thinks about it and gives as genuine an answer he can. 

“I, well. I’m on suspension, so it would make sense if I did some sort of revenge, got in a fight and it goes down the wrong way.” It comes off as blase, but now Percy is thinking about it. He would go to this old office, pretend to get into a fight with someone…

“I’ve... I’ve set aside some of the funds from Lucius in a separate bank account, just for me. Chris— his whole reason for seeking out Lucius was to afford muggle university, even though I’ve never gone. And. And I’d think I’d like to.”

“Then what’s stopping you?” 

The responsibility he has to his family, The responsibility he has to his community. But, doesn’t that responsibility work both ways? Shouldn’t a family take more heed in one another’s opinion, shouldn’t a community look out for each other, instead of pointing fingers and whooshing scandals underneath a lumpy rug?

“I don’t know.” And he doesn’t. 

December turns the nipping frost into full-grown snowfalls, the white powder crunching underneath Percy’s boots as he wades through the knee-long sweet grass in front of the burrow, a letter clutched in his hands. He doesn’t want to be here, he needs to be here. 

At the end of November, Percy is knee-deep in research about muggle universities (in London, in America, in Hawaiʻi) when a Weasley owl comes crashing into his closed window. Rolling his eyes, Percy puts down the muggle laptop on his lap and goes to help Errol. 

“Bloody stupid bird.” Ten minutes later and Errol refuses to budge until Percy reads the letter. In the span of ten minutes, Percy had tried virtually everything short of tossing the barmy owl out and slamming the window shut, which he has not done only out of fear of the owl throwing himself into the window until he couldn’t anymore. Even the bloody bird was a fucking Gryffindor. 

“Alright! Alright, give me a bloody letter.” Smugly, Errol lifts up his leg for Percy to untie the parchment around his foot. In his mother's loopy handwriting, there’s no time nor a date. Just two sentences. 

_ We miss you, come home. Dinner? _

He sends the letter back. A similarly loopy “Ok.” in smooth green ink. 

Which is why he’s here. With feet soaked from the melting snow that managed to get in between his boots, shivering from his warming spell going out due to his nerves, and a letter with atrocious handwriting stowed safely away in his pocket. And yet, when the warmth from the Burrow hits him, he swelters. 

This is his home, shouldn’t he feel warmth, shouldn’t he find solace and comfort in the smell of freshly baked bread wafting from the kitchen, or the shouting from upstairs? Percy walks over to the sofa chairs and sits down, straightening out his robes as he does so. And the couch eats him, envelops him in its downy plush. He feels like he’s suffocating. No one is in the sitting room to see him jump out from the couch, hands clutching his knees as he hyperventilates. 

“Percy!” He’s been spotted. Arms as suffocating as the couch pull him into an embrace as sweltering as the house itself. Molly smells like freshly baked bread, and her voice is hoarse from yelling at the twins in the kitchen. Percy flounders in her grip, so focused on trying to get out because  _ dear Merlin he can’t breathe _ that he only catches the tail end of what she says. 

“And, oh, poor Ron he couldn’t make it back but Charlie and Bill, bless their souls, came here as a surprise. Oh, I wonder if it would be too late to owl Dumbledore, maybe Ron could floo over? Nevermind that, Percy, oh look at how much you’ve grown, is that” Molly gasps, and Percy’s stomach bottoms out— did he forget to glamour his nose ring?!— his hands fly up to his face, but Molly stops him, grinning ear to ear, 

“Oh, Percy! Your facial hair is finally growing in, come, come let’s go greet the family, oh” She pulls Percy into another hug, “I missed you so much.” Tears are glimmering in her eyes and Percy feels his chest tighten, squeezing in a way that no real person could really do. But Molly recovers, wiping away a few errant tears and sniffling loudly.

“And, I also have an announcement for after dinner.” Could it be? Percy tightens the letter in his hand, perhaps he doesn’t have to bring it up to the family. 

Percy is herded into the dining area, the heat, the smells, and the noises making his head spin. He clenches the letter in his hand in a last-ditch attempt to ground him in something. Merlin, maybe he should’ve brought Oliver. 

“Oh, Dear,” 

“Oh my!” Oh Merlin, kill him. He recognizes those voices. They're the same ones responsible for having his job on suspension. 

“If it isn’t our own  _ pie _ of a brother.” And at this moment, Percy wanted to swear. Loud and fast, low and bold— proud and angry. He wanted to chew off his brothers’ heads because they knew. They knew how important his job is to him. How hard he worked for that position. 

“Piss off.” Percy near-snarls, moodily taking his seat by Bill. Sadly, Fred (or George, he doesn’t care to tell them apart right now) steals the empty seat on his right, plopping a canvas bag, most likely full of ingredients for their joke shop that they’ll slip in Percy’s food, in between them. 

“Oh, don’t be like that Percy-pie.” 

“Come on, didn’t you appreciate our little gift?” Molly, who had overheard the last bit of the sentence smiled at her boys. 

“That’s nice, you got Percy a gift?” 

“Yeah. suspension and termination from my fucking job.” Percy mutters under his breath, fisting his hands into his shirt to prevent himself from launching at the twins. 

“You say somethin’, Perce?” Charlie asks, plopping himself down at the open seat on Percy’s right, shooing away the twins. Percy shoots him a terse smile, “Nope, just a little stressed.” Charlie smiles back, pulling him into a hug. 

“Don’t worry little bro, I got you.” Percy’s heart hurts. At this moment, he imagines Charlie in the apartment, talking Quidditch strategy with Oliver and Marcus, making awkward small talk with Barty. And he wants that. Wants his family, at least that part of it, to still be in his life. He doesn’t want to burn this last bridge. He hugs back. 

Dinner goes by faster than he thought it would. The twins try to pick a fight, and without Ginny and Ron Percy doesnʻt hold back with the witty remarks. Of course, Molly shoots him disappointed looks, but Percy can’t find it in himself to care about what she thinks. Arthur laughs along with the antics, cowing under Molly's withering gaze. 

Soon, the plates are cleared and the leftovers are stashed away in the fridge. The Weasley family retires to the living room. Percy stumbles over twin cargo bags, flailing his arms out and being steadied by Bill, who catches him by his shoulders. 

“Careful there, Perce.” 

“Thanks, Bill.” Percy takes his place awkwardly perching on the arm of one of the plush sofa, the only place where the couch wouldn’t devour him whole. A small smudge of guilt surfaces when Bill pulls him down in the middle between him and Charlie, slinging an arm around him. Unlike the first time, he doesn’t sink into the couch, instead, he floats above the cushions with Charlie’s arm as his guide. From his vantage point, he sees the white of the letter he stuck in peeking out from the cargo bag, weighing whether or not he should retrieve it. 

“Alright, now that the boys have gone to bed, I have some exciting news to share with the grownups!” 

“How much do you want to bet there’s a pair of extendable ears somewhere?” Percy mutters. Charlie and Bill snicker but shut up when Molly glares at them. 

She clears her throat, “Dumbledore has called us into battle once again— there is talk of you-know-who coming back.” Immediately, Charlie and Bill sit at the edge of their seats, Bill’s grip on Percy’s shoulder tightening. Maybe Percy should have acted surprised or scared or something else besides the blatant apathy that lines his face. But if what’s coming next is what he thinks, he’ll need this mask of anti-emotions to shield his anger. 

“So, Arthur and I have decided to donate our assets to the Order of the Phoenix, which means we’ll be running into some slight financial problems.” 

“Slight?” Percy whispers in disbelief. He’s seen the bank account after he transferred the money through the family goblin. Slight is the understatement of the century. 

“Percy, dear, did you say something?” 

“SLIGHT?” Percy yells, getting up from his seat, Bill’s arm falling off his shoulders. He immediately misses the warmth, but treks on anyway. 

“Mum, with the balance we had in the account, we wouldn’t have been able to afford ANYTHING for the upcoming year at Hogwarts!” 

“Dumbledore will provide for—” 

“To HELL with Dumbledore! Can’t you see he’s leading you on a path that will only lead to the degradation of our already tarnished name and a further downward spiral into poverty!? Mum, open your eyes,” Percy pleads, “he’s just using you, using us! For money that we don’t even have! I mean, Mum, you’re just a sheep blindly following his whims—” 

“Don’t talk to your mother like that, young man.” Arthur’s tone is sharp, albeit tired. Arthur knew, on some level, Percy was right. But the war, what it did to his family, how he could barely sleep without seeing his brothers’ too pale faces—and the blood, the blood was the worst. No, he’d do anything to keep that from happening to his own family, not to his boys. 

“Dad, what would the ministry think if you openly supported Dumbledore? Look at all of the sway he’s losing because people are starting to see that he’s absolutely barmy!” 

“I said that is enough young man!” 

“No! I refuse to let this family fail because you didn’t care enough about keeping our name out of trouble.” Percy’s face is red, his voice hoarse. Bill and Charlie each have one arm restrained to keep Percy from hitting his dad. 

Arthur is livid, his Weasley temper breaking loose from the blatant act of disrespect. His words are sharp and stinging, the magic in the air sizzling and making hairs on the back of necks stand straight up. A room away, the twins feel the magic crackling, can hear the tension in the room from the extendable ears. 

Frown lines crease Arthur’s forehead, giving him an older, sterner look. Gone is the cheery, slightly daffy, father figure that Percy’s known his whole life. Here stands the soldier whose own childhood house became a battlefield scarred with the blood of his brothers. Here stands a man who has made tough decisions and will do it once more for the greater good of his family. “What did I do wrong, to raise a son that could never find value in just his family? To have a son that cares only about the name associated with your bloodline? You’re angry about having the Weasley name smeared because we choose to support the greater good? You don’t have to be here. You don’t need to be here. Bloody hell! You don’t even want to be here! SO LEAVE. GO. And when you leave this house, know that the Weasley name you hate with such a passion leaves with you!” There. It had been done. The magic that buzzed in the air, sizzled and crackled a shock going through everyone in the house. 

Percy doesn’t say anything more, just storms out of the house, Charlie and Bill hot on his heels. The sweetgrass that once filled him with nostalgia makes him nauseous, the sweltering heat of the inside hearth freezing over with the chill of the outside. 

“Percy, wait up! Dad’s just cranky, tired. Come back inside, we can talk it out. I’m sure Bill and I can put down money for the younger ones’ tuition.” 

They’re at the edge of the wards when Bill and Charlies finally get Percy to stop walking. 

“No. Don’t put any money into the family account.” 

Bill knits his eyebrows. “But… that whole fight was about us not having any money?” 

Percy rubs at his eyes furiously, willing his tears away. He’s hurt, just not physically. “When I found the Gringotts letter about our assets being frozen I… I found a way to make a little extra money. About 40,000 galleons. Not a lot, but it should last for the rest of their Hogwarts schooling.” 

Charlie looks on in amazement. “How did you get 40,000 galleons??” Then, fear overtakes him. “Oh Merlin, Percy what did you do? Is it legal?” Percy looks away. While their sessions weren’t illegal, Lucius was still very much a married man and Narcissa had a lot of sway in the Wizarding World. 

Then he’s enveloped into two warm pairs of arms— nothing like the suffocating heat of Molly’s hugs. As they hug him, his knees are in the muddy snow of November as he’s crying in his brother’s arms.

The soft touches, the gentle breakfasts in bed, the ravenous nights filled with passion— all of it seem so far away, so tainted by the blatant rejection by his family. And all he can do is sob. 

“Hey, it’s ok, you don’t have to tell us.” 

“Yeah, Perce. But please, we just need you to be safe, ok?” Percy nods. Percy makes a promise to himself in that moment, to never let them find out what happened between him and Lucius Malfoy. 

Percy waits for his tears to dry before he’s ready to have Bill and Charlie stand him up. 

“You’re sure you’re going to be alright on your own?” Percy nods, drowsiness settling deep in his bones. All he wants is Oliver, Marcus, and Barty. 

“Alright, don’t hesitate to reach out to us, ok, Perce?” Charlie pleads, pulling Percy into a hug. 

“Yeah lil bro, we love you.” 

“I...I love you too.” And he means it. Bill and Charlie step out of the wards, side-apparating to the ministry. Percy stands on the edge of the ward, on a thin line between two choices. He could go back inside, talk things out with his parents. Or, he could go back to his boyfriends, get rightly pissed, and never talk to his family again. 

‘We love you.’ It echoes in Percy’s head as he turns around, ready to make things right with his family. 

“Ha-ha!” One of the garden gnomes pops out from the sweet grass, tackling Percy’s knees, the sudden weight causing him to lose balance and go crashing to the ground. 

“A-ha!” The gnome makes off with Percy’s wand, waving it above his head and running towards the forest clearing. 

“Hey! Give that back!” Percy runs after him, leaping over the wards and landing on the garden gnome. 

Pain. 

PAIN. 

Percy doesn’t know where it starts, he just knows that it won’t stop. The pain, it racks his body like electric volts coursing through his blood, tearing open nerve endings. He can’t see, he can’t hear, he can’t feel. Maybe it’s a moment, maybe it’s a month but all he feels is pain, all he sees is black, all he hears is white noise. 

When it passes, he collapses in a heap of snow stained red. The garden gnome he previously crushed stands in terror, never hearing a wizard make such sounds. He drops the wand in the wizard’s pocket and runs back to his family— he’d have an exciting tale to tell his Momma! 

Percy comes to, alone, sprawled out on the snow in a pool of his own blood. He can barely move, the vestiges of pain clinging onto him like a sting that won’t fade. He screams, he pleads for someone to find him. 

Within the Weasley Burrow, there is a tense silence. Arthur and Molly had gone to bed without saying a word to each other— their silence heavy, unsure. Meanwhile, the twins were in their own beds, communicating amongst themselves without words on what they had seen unfold. All of them none-the-wiser to the writhing body meters away from them. However, downstairs, the Weasley clock on the mantle comes alive once more. Percy’s hand, which had moved to Mortal Peril as magic electrified the air, comes loose with a high creak, before clattering to the floor. 

“Help me, HElp Me, HELP ME!” His voice is hoarse and rough from crying, at one point blood starts dripping from the corners of his mouth, forming a grotesque frown. But he doesn't stop calling, wishing for someone, anyone, hell, even the twins to look out the window and see him, take him inside the insidiously hot Burrow and comfort him, help him. But no one comes. 

His screams fade to soft sobs, abandonment hurting worse than the cold that sinks into his bones while laying in the sludge of melted snow and blood. 

Bleeding out, abandoned, and tired, Percy wracks his mind for an answer. What did he do? What could he possibly have done to deserve the hand he’s been dealt? No. He’s tired of constantly being pushed down by a group of people he thought would help him, who he trusted. If they don’t have the decency to pick him up off the floor, then he’ll just do it himself. 

Sitting up is hard, the buzzing that pinches his nerves turns into an electric shock and he lets out a yelp of pain before gritting his teeth. No more of that. He closes his eyes, shutting out the starry sky and the warm light that emanates through the Burrow windows. Instead, he focuses inward, the grainy walls of his apartment, the gray stone of the apartment alleyways. Oliver’s hearty laugh, Marcus’ smile, Barty’s eyes. 

He disapparates. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Well, that just happened. RIP Percy. Don't worry, he's not dead (yet). 
> 
> Did you drink water yet? 
> 
> Reviews and comments go a long way!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus and Oliver find Percy. Then, Christmas at Hogwarts!

While Percy was away at his Christmas dinner with the other Weasley’s, Oliver and Marcus buckled down at the apartment and had a Disney marathon, intent to catch up with the muggle culture. 

“You’re fucking crying aren’t you?” Marcus asks, looking up from his spot on Oliver’s lap as they watch the ending of Big Hero Six. Oliver surreptitiously wipes his eyes on his Weasley jumper, looking away. 

“Holy shit Wood it’s a fucking robot it can be rebuilt!” 

“Fuck off Flint, he was the  _ first  _ robot and all that Hiro has left of Tadashi—” Oliver’s voice breaks and he looks away again. 

“You’re such a fucking girl.” 

“Yet, you’re the one that has to lie down because your ass hurts too much to sit on the couch.” Oliver proclaims smugly, hands slipping underneath Marcus’ shirt. Time to practice another part of muggle culture, Netflix and Chill. 

As Marcus goes to sit up and pull Oliver down to his level— the little shit— a metallic clatter sounds from outside the apartment. They both freeze, then hightail it out the flat, Big Hero Six forgotten. 

On the very first day, the four of them bought the apartment, Barty and Marcus (the best at wards) spent half of the day just  _ designing _ what type of wards would go where. One of the most powerful magic that had gone up was the sound ward— no sound in, no sound out. There was only one exception, and that was magic fired out of a need for protection. For example, if someone on the inside fired a defensive spell the actual incantation would not be heard by those outside, but the resulting crashing from whatever needed shielding would be heard. 

Similarly, say, for example, if there were someone that apparated into an alleyway and was bleeding out, the effects of any spell they fired out would be heard by those inside the flat. 

This is what led Oliver and Marcus to the dingy alleyway that Percy left from, welcomed to the site of Percy leaning up against one of the walls, something green catching in his hair, and something red running down his nose, his mouth, his ears, his eyes. His wand is gripped in his right hand, his left hand twitching brokenly, fingers poised in a way to indicate a sprain at the very least. 

“Oli—” Marcus chokes out, unable to finish before Oliver is already throwing himself into helping, picking Percy up like he was nothing and slinging the other over his shoulder as if he were a sack of potatoes. 

Marcus casts a disillusionment charm on the two, then sets himself to covering up the alleyway. Gone is the blood that dripped off from Percy’s face, the moss that had been disturbed by Percy’s head regrown and flourishing. 

By the time Marcus is done and starts running back to the flat, Oliver is already there and digging through their first aid kit for something to stop the bleeding. 

Percy is breathing, but besides an errant twitch of crooked fingers, he doesn’t move. Oliver settles for cotton balls, stuffing them into the other’s ears. Marcus barges back into the apartment as Oliver gets started on the magic portion. 

“I’m doing a diagnostic right now, it’ll tell us any spells used on him within the last day or so.” A soft green light emanates from the tip of Oliver’s wand, and he waves it over Percy’s body, a small piece of parchment popping into existence shortly after. Oliver whitens when he realizes what the spell is. Numbly, he hands it to Marcus and launches into fixing Percy’s nosebleed. 

“Bloody fuck.” A blood disownment. Something that can only be done from the Head of House— which means Arthur Weasley. The parchment crumples beneath Marcus’ fist, the intent for a killing curse boiling deep in his bones. 

“No.” Oliver’s Scottish brogue is thick, eyes never leaving Percy’s face as he concentrates his magic on fixing the minor concussion from the rough touchdown in the alleyway. 

“We don’t do anything till Percy is awake.” Whatever came out of Oliver’s mouth was barely decipherable to Marcus’ ears with the heavy brogue, but it was there. 

“Fine.” Marcus joined Oliver at Percy’s head, getting started on restoring the other’s fingers. 

“It’s a self-imposed coma, the spell caused his literal  _ blood _ to change, so besides this, there’s nothing much we can do,” Oliver mutters, holding back a sigh as he looks at the rising sun. 

Marcus chances a glance at the clock and winces, 5:58 am. Merry fucking Christmas. 

He stands and staggers his way to the kitchen island, where an errant parchment and pen lies. Hurriedly, Marcus scribbles onto the parchment, then gets Hermes from his cage— who hoots with disdain from waking up just as he was about to drift off. 

“Get this to Barty as fast as you can. He’s going to look a little different, but so will you.” Marcus places the strongest illusionment charm he can on the owl, Hermes’ feathers now a sleek black, his eyes now a deep blue. 

He helps Hermes to the window and watches him fly off. 

“C’mon, let’s drop Percy off in bed then get showered.” Oliver stands, stretches, then offers a hand out to Marcus. Without hesitation, Marcus takes the other’s hand in his own. When they deposit Percy into bed, their hands intertwine and don’t release. 

It’s Christmas at Hogwarts and there’s a certain joy in the air. Some would say it's magical. Others would say it’s because the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher isn’t terrorizing the students at breakfast. 

The beginning of Hogwarts breakfast started off like any other, Professor Moody limping into the Great Hall, eye spinning about his head, yelling at students for the contraband in their bags. Then, an owl, black and beautiful, flies in through a window and lands primly on the Professor’s shoulder, seemingly unaware (or unafraid) of the man. 

Professor takes the offered letter from the bird’s foot, feeding it some bacon off a first year’s plate. The owl flies off with bacon in beak. Albus, who had just entered the Great Hall, puts a hand on Professor Moody’s shoulder. 

“Happy Christmas, Alistair! Oh, how wonderful, you’ve already gotten a present. I told you the student body would eventually warm up to you.” Professor Moody hides a smirk at the unintentional pun. Yes, a (graduated) student body had certainly warmed up to him, and under him as well. 

“Happy Christmas to you as well Albus, and all that nonsense. There’s no need, the letter is from an old contact and they’d be even crazier than you to try and curse me.” And with that, Professor Moody pockets the letter and limps to his office, the twinkling eyes of Albus Dumbledore boring into his back. 

“Well, that’s certainly not the Christmas present I was expecting,” Barty mutters to himself as he finishes reading the letter, fear and disdain crawling in his voice. When he gets his hands on Arthur bloody Weasley…

He casts the letter into the crackling fire, grabbing the strongest whiskey he has (muggle-made, ironically enough) reflecting on how the boy that burns brighter than the flames beside his overstuffed chair came to be one of his lovers. 

It was dark. That much he remembers. It was pitch-black in the kitchen cupboard his father kept him in, under an invisibility cloak and the Imperius curse. There were brief glimpses of sunshine, such as when Winky would let him stretch his limbs on the walk down to the dungeon, slivers of sunshine peering through the cracks in the ceiling bricks. Of course, these glimpses of light would soon be followed by the cracks of whips and the shouts of the Cruciatus curse. 

Then, in the haunting silence of the night, there’s a clatter, and a boy with flaming hair— the moonlight framing his face like a halo in the back of a torch. Winky talked about this boy often— Percival Weatherby, the new intern. Winky removes the invisibility cloak from his body, and the boy’s eyes widen so big that Barty’s half-scared they’ll pop out of his head. 

“He’s been under Master’s charm for almost a fortnight with no movement. Winky was scared because Winky can’t undo Master’s charm and Barty not be getting any food or water.” 

Percy nods, then casts the counter charm for the immobility spell he’d been under, a new spell that had been added on when Barty Crouch Sr. didn’t want to continuously tell his son to  _ not move.  _ At once, Barty has to stifle a scream as his arm jolt pulls on the still scabbing wound he’s gotten a while back, unable to heal because of the improper care of his body. 

“Winky, where is Mister Crouch?” 

“Winky slipped him a sleeping draught, Winky will punish herself for after Master Jr. leaves.” Winky takes both of Percy’s hands into smaller ones. “Winky knows that Master Percy will take care of him.” 

“I will.” 

Percy slings Barty’s less wounded arm over his shoulder, carrying the other to the edge of the Crouch wards before side-apparating. They reach the outskirts of a forest, where Percy puts Barty underneath an illusionment charm as he walks the other into the Burrow. 

The next week flies by in a blur, with Winky sneaking into the Burrow and working with Percy, who Barty learns is a skilled legilimens, to break the Imperius curse. Then, a breakthrough happens.    
  


‘Can you hear me?’ Percy startles, engrained in a book about the imperius curse. He whips his head towards Barty, who currently lies on his bed, head propped up with a pillow. 

‘Yes.’ Percy tentatively answers back. 

‘Good.’ Barty closes his eyes, and Percy feels himself being pulled into a memory, one of the dungeon sessions with Barty’s father. 

‘That’s what I would be in the middle of right now, so thank you.’ Percy nods then casts a stronger silencing spell on his room before talking. 

“My boyfriends,” Barty’s eyes shoot up at the plural form. “Both of them have experience with the imperius curse. Can I invite them over? They’ll be able to help you.” Barty nods. 

In hindsight, Barty should have known that the Flint kid would be the one to break the Imperius curse first, the Flints are known for their mind games. But, surprisingly, Wood is the one to get him acclimated to human touch. The little things— the shoulder pats, the American muggle high fives and fist bumps, which are childish at times, help Barty get acclimated to the real world, and not the hellscape that was the space underneath his father’s thumb. 

“That’s kind of gay, isn’t it?” Marcus nonchalantly says from the bed, head resting on Barty’s chest as Oliver kisses Barty’s cheek, Percy sprawled across all three of their legs, reading. 

“I had my cock up your arse not even three hours ago, Flint,” Oliver replies, Barty flushing with the mental image. 

  
  


Barty snaps out of his reverie with a knock on his door. 

“Who is it?” He growls at the door, knocking back the rest of whatever he grabbed. 

“Just me, old friend.” Dumbledore steps inside and Professor Moody goes back to staring at the fire. 

“Is everything alright, dear friend? I’ve noticed that some students are not cowering in fear of you.” Professor Moody snorts, pouring himself another glass of the muggle alcohol. 

“Must be the Christmas spirit, Albus.” He wordlessly toasts to Albus. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May fast approaches and the third task of the Triwizard tournament goes down.

May flowers bloom along the hillside of Hogwarts and her regal surrounding forests. Despite the cheery countenance the landscape provides, there’s a heavy tension that hangs in the air. Hours before the third trial commences, and the sun is nearly dipping its rays into the ocean. There’s activity buzzing across Hogwarts’ flower-laden grounds, but near the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest is where a small group of adults lies, hidden beneath the eaves of shade the tree canopies provide. 

This group of four men wrap up their conversation, with plans solidified and ready to be launched into action. Then, a gentle grip on a wrist. 

“Barty, are you ok?” Percy asks, attracting the attention of Oliver and Marcus, both of them directing their attention to the other two. Barty shrugs then, with eyes cast to the Great Lake, speak his piece. 

“I killed him. He broke free from that Rat’s poor spell and I saw him, trying to confess to Potter and that Bulgarian meathead. So, I stunned them and. Just. Killed him.” They all share a look, none of them really knowing how to deal with such a heavy death. 

“Well, that must be a relief. Your dad was a fucking dick.” Marcus is the first one to break the silence. What he lacks in tact he more than makes up in his hard-head, demonstrated when Percy whacks him upside the head. 

“Bloody hell, Flint, have more respect.” Marcus scowls at him, rubbing his head. 

Oliver chooses this moment to intervene. “I mean, hate to agree with Bugs Bunny there, but he’s got a point.” Oliver seems proud of himself for using such a muggle reference, even though he gets flipped the bird from Marcus and a nasty scowl from Percy. 

Regardless, he turns to Barty, slinging an arm around the older man, then, looks him square in the eye. “Barty, he deserved it.”

“He did deserve it,” Percy concedes, “but murder is still wrong.”

“Wrong  _ sometimes _ ” Marcus emphasizes, pointing at Percy mockingly, then addresses Barty. 

“Hey, Jr.”

“What, Flint.” 

“After this is all over, wanna get wasted and have the biggest fucking orgy, see how many times we can get dear old Dad to roll over in his grave?” Barty considers it, before smiling and grabbing Marcus with his free hand, dragging him into a kiss. 

When they separate for air, Barty licks his lips, “Yeah, I’d like that.” 

“Percy, are you absolutely sure about this?” Oliver asks, sadness tugging at his frown. 

“What do you mean, Wood, you and Red are obviously invited,” Marcus says, leaning his weight against the other Quidditch player. 

“No, I mean. Next year, come this time, we won’t be here. We’ll be away. Away from England, from the Wizarding World, from those that know us.”

“Olly, if we don’t do this. Next year, come this time, if we don’t do this, we still won’t be here. We’ll be on opposing sides. Marcus and Barty’ll be fighting against you and me—” Oliver goes to protest, but Percy stops him. “We both know that’s the sides we’ll end up on, regardless of whether or not we want to be there or not.” Percy stops to collect his thoughts, then, 

“Oliver Wood, I love you. But I also love Marcus Flint. And Bartemius Crouch Jr.” 

“Percy, you’ve got a family—” 

“Yeah, I do. You guys. The Weasleys? They left me, literally disowned me.” Percy casts the disillusionment charm on his face, the scars of where blood dripped from his eyes and mouth— the two places that had permanent damage— now visible. 

Oliver winces, remember the day Percy woke up— almost a week after Oliver and Marcus had brought him into the flat. Almost immediately after he reached consciousness, blood started dripping from Percy’s eyes and mouth, smoke coming up from the skin anywhere the blood touched. It took another month before Percy was able to recover from the burns, and another two weeks before he could see or eat anything properly. Even his fingers, permanently scarred, took some readjusting.

“But I’m glad they did. At least now I know where their loyalties lie, and where my loyalties should be. He looks at all of them with something akin to fondness (but a little stronger than that) in his eyes. “With all of you.” 

The TriWizard Tournament is done. 

Cedric Diggory is dead.

Voldemort is back. 

Percy Weasley, a temporary rehire due to the unexpected panic that arises from the death of a Hogwarts student, is in the break room of the ministry at an ungodly hour. It was unexpected and Percy craves a shower and a solid 10 hours of sleep. There’s a faint pop from outside the breakroom, but Percy pays it no mind, content to sip his coffee and woe about his troubles internally. The popping sound was likely from an Auror bringing in some drunk wizard who got lost. He can hear the sounds so clearly since the break room was adjacent to the place where aurors have to process criminals that come in. 

Then, he hears shouting. Percy drops his mug, coffee, and broken porcelain decorating the sleek tiling of the breakroom. That’s Barty’s voice. 

Percy runs outside, wand tentatively in hand. 

“Sir, I need you to stand back!” An Auror yells, her hair changing from a short blonde bob cut to a long curly purple style. Barty is in the middle, yelling at the two other aurors who also have their wands pointed at the criminal, electric blue ropes made of energy shooting out from their wands, Barty wrapped tight in the ropes. He still dons the Professor Moody garb, albeit without the eye. 

However, the distraction that Percy brings is all Barty needs to overwhelm the others with wandless magic, pushing back a smaller Auror into the wall, the man landing with a dull thud against one of the walls. 

“Call for back-up!” The woman shouts at the other man, a little burlier but nonetheless lithe as he hightails it to a nearby floo. Barty waves his hand and the other male Auror goes immobile, as well as the woman. 

“Tonks, nice to see you, cousin.” ‘Cousin’ is spat with disdain. Barty then turns his attention to Percy, strutting to the other person not immobilized. Tonk and the other auror are only able to reach a sort of muffled shouting in terms of mobility. 

“Oh. A  _ Weasley.”  _ To say Percy flinches is an understatement. Almost immediately, Percy starts firing off offensive and defensive spells, one after the other. Barty blocks them all with ease, continuing to advance. Percy continues to step backward. 

“The others talked about how your uncles  _ scream  _ and  _ begged  _ for mercy when we got there.” 

“Fuck this,” Percy mutters, launching himself at Barty, surprising the other, and decking him clear across the face. 

From there, Percy has more ground and sends one more hit before retreating and starting to fire off more defensive spells. 

“You Blood-traitor Brat!” Barty growls, engaging in the duel. 

As they duel, Percy and Barty draw closer to each other, until they’re barely a meter apart. Tonks feels her spell start to weaken, and she is able to speak freely, although still immobile. 

“Run a way!” She screams, still struggling against the spell. 

A second. 

A moment. 

Something a little less than a moment, perhaps.

It happens in slow motion for him. 

He looks towards Tonks, and it’s all need Barty needs. 

“Avada—” He hears that part first, just as he makes eye contact with Tonks, whose face pales. 

His legs are stuck to the floor, the result of one of the earlier spells. So he imagines muggle scissors and kitchen knives, sending his knife in a large swooping motion, a cutting spell firing off from his wand. 

“Kedavra—” The words leave his mouth, the spell fires off. The cutting spell hits. Barty Crouch Jr. falls. 

Green light hits Percy square in the chest, and he falls to the floor soon after, wand clattering to the side and hand landing inches away from Barty’s. 

The spell completely wears off minutes later, Tonks launching to Percy’s body and the other auror calling in for back-up. 

The next three hours are spent with nothing spoken above a murmur. Higher-up politicians are called in from their houses (or from the tournament) and start pulling strings. Two burly wizards take away the bodies. 

Within the week, Cedric Diggory’s death is not the only front topic news.  **Percy Weasley, Destroyer of Death Eaters! (by Rita Skeeter).**

The Weasley’s are paid a generous compensation to mourn the loss of their son (and to also not press charges). The Weasley’s try to turn it down, but Minister Fudge is adamant about accepting the money, although mostly to cover his own arse than to value a worker that was technically suspended. 

The week after, a will reading is held and only Penelope Clearwater and the Weasley family are allowed. The goblin sits elevated on his chair, glasses low on his nose as he reads. 

“To Penelope Clearwater,” The goblin looks at the petite blonde. “My most prized novel, for reading when tough times descend upon you.” The goblin nods to the other goblins at the back of the room, and they present Penelope with the thickest book she’s ever seen. Leatherbound in silver and dusky oranges. The cover, in Percy’s careful script, is carved with the title, “Last Hope”. 

“C-can I g-go?” The goblin nods, and Penelope leaves, a hand coming up to stifle her sobs. Molly and Arthur, the elected Weasley’s, watch the girl leave, sadness aging their features. 

“Next, onto the Weasley family.” The goblin clears his throat, then squints at the writing.

“To the Weasley family—” The goblin cuts himself off. He ruffles the paper, as if it will change the print, then clears his throat once more. 

‘To the Weasley family, I have given all that I can to you and more. Please, let me rest in peace.” Molly’s frame is wracked with sobs, Arthur wrapping his arms around her as a source of comfort, the pain boring into his heart no less painful. 

Their son— but no. They could not call him son any longer. The day after Percy left, Molly was setting up breakfast when she noticed Percy’s clock hand on the floor. Then, when Arthur woke up minutes later, they looked into what could have been done to cause a separation from the clock. 

Which is when they discovered the disownment spell. 

The twins awoke that day to the sobs of their mother and father. 

They tried reaching out, but the house owls refused to send anything addressed to Percy. Even the local owls, when attached with a letter and tasked to go to Percy Weasley, would stay seated on their perch. It took days for them to realize, there was no such person named Percy Weasley now. His last name was taken with his blood, with his Weasley heritage. 

However, there is a silver lining for all storm clouds. The money from Percy’s efforts and the money from his death set the Weasley family up for decades to come and would support them through the wartime effort. Especially when the Death Eaters would develop a spell to evacuate any funds touched by those from the “light side” from all bank accounts. Percy’s money, previously Lucius Malfoy’s money, would stay weighed down in the Weasley vault, and while some would go to Dumbledore, Molly was careful in keeping Dumbledore close, but her remaining family as far away from him as possible. 

Percy and Barty’s death had an effect on everyone. Marcus falls into a deep depression, retiring from his Quidditch team with the dignity and pride trained into his Flint heritage. 

“It’s been an honor serving with you mates, but I’m too old for this shit.” Marcus, in a private ceremony at Gringotts, renames the Flint heir and lives out his days in a small cottage nestled in the May flower-laden hills of Scotland. Sadly, the rest of his days end up being two days. A small group of Death Eaters break into his house and kill him, his death marking the second death at the hands of the new war. 

Oliver does not take Percy or Barty’s death as easily as Marcus. He suffers a mental breakdown as soon as he hears about the death of his best friend. His descent into madness causes one of his Puddlemore mates to physically restrain him as he tries to punch out the messenger who told him of Percy and Barty’s death. Wood’s announcement is announced by the Puddlemore manager. Some superfans of Puddlemore did more digging and found out that the team paid for a permanent stay in St.Mungo’s for Oliver. However, the day after the announcement went out about Oliver’s retirement, a new announcement was printed. The front cover story is the suicide of Oliver Wood, hanging himself from his bedsheets. 

So ends the story of our four protagonists, dying tragic deaths. 

Nah, I’m just fucking with you, let’s skip ahead a bit. 

Four years later, the war ends. Harry Malfoy-nee-Potter stands tall with his husband, Draco Malfoy, and their child, Teddy Lupin, at the reopening of Hogwarts. Currently, the “Heroes of Hogwarts” are giving their speech. The Head of the House of Flint, Luna Longbottom-nee-Lovegood, has just finished up her speech, she whispers good luck into Malfoy’s ear as he addresses the Wizarding World. 

Malfoy ends his speech with a dedication, “While I never knew him myself, Oliver Wood and his broom strategies saved my life when Harry rescued me from the Room of Requirements, and saved the life of his brother, Fred Weasley, during an airborne Death Eater attack. For that, the naming of the new Wood Quidditch fields will stand strong in his honor.” 

In a satchel meant for pranking ingredients, there was a letter addressed to the twins, from Oliver Wood. The letter itself had an expansion charm, holding a thick binder filled with battle plan broom strategies. After Percy’s death, Fred and George, along with a majority of the Puddlemore team united and created an airtight defense against the Death Eaters in the air. 

Harry steps up onto the podium next, continuing on with his speech. 

Harry, too, concludes his speech with a dedication. “...And lastly, the new wing dedicated to the assimilation of muggle culture with wizarding culture. This wing is named in honor of the man who forged hundreds of blank half-blood lineage papers for muggle-borns during the war, helping the cause even in his death, a death caused at the hands of a Death Eater. It is my hope that the Percival wings will serve as a reminder of the unsung heroes whose works impact all of us to this day.” 

It’s a frigid May day when Harry Potter-Malfoy gives his speech. It’s a frigid May day  _ in England.  _

But on the Hawaiian islands, on the island of O’ahu, in the town of Honolulu? Well, it’s hot enough that Barty has to wear a tank top, showing off the metal of his prosthetic arm. 

It’s hot enough that sweat beads on Percy’s forehead as he’s buried under countless candy lei and squished between his three husbands. 

“Say Cheese goddamit!” Barty exclaims, his smile giving away his excitement at capturing the moment, his prosthetic hand holding up the muggle camera.

“Cheese!” Percy yells, waving his diploma at the camera. 

“Suck my dick!” Marcus says, smiling at the camera, while also flipping off said camera.

“Cheese!” Oliver exclaims, his hand going in to smack the ever-loving shit out of Marcus. 

When the picture is done, Oliver turns to Percy, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“Damn Mr.Wood, all of the all-nighters just for a pretty piece of paper and some rope?” Percy  _ Wood _ , Oliver won the rock-paper-scissors on whose name they take. Marcus still thinks it’s unfair, despite eloping the week after they all faked their deaths. 

“Careful,  _ Mr.Wood _ , a couple more years from now and you’ll have to call me  _ Doctor Wood _ .” Barty and Marcus immediately hop on the opening. 

“Can I see another type of wood from you, Perce?” 

“ _ Doctor Wood _ ? Can I schedule that check-up now?”

“All of you are thirsty fucks.” Percy exclaims, despite tangling himself within them again. 

“Hey, Perce. We’re so damn proud of you.” 

And this. The action of heading back to their little house in sleepy Mānoa. Percy behind the wheel, Barty’s metal hand entwined with his scarred one, Oliver and Marcus dozing in the backseat, sometimes shooting Percy and Barty flirtatious winks. Knowing that they’ll go to bed together. Knowing that they’ll be there in the morning. That’s contentment. That’s love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. So, quick story. This was supposed to be a Percy Weasley erotica, in which it was just Percy sleeping with a lot of people. And I even expanded that story into a crossover with Percy Jackson (get it, /Percy/ Jackson). However, the idea got too big and I ended up cutting it since I am not that familiar with the Percy Jackson fandom. 
> 
> I am so happy that I am able to share this story with you, and I hope there will be more like it in the future! 
> 
> Have a great day, and please leave a comment, even a little <3 goes a long way!


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